


A Vampire, a Witch, and A Werewolf Walk Into a Bar

by laylabinx



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Language, M/M, OT3, Polyamory, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches, eventual mission fic, oh my!, violence toward the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:04:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6215617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laylabinx/pseuds/laylabinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a gamble from the very beginning, throwing together a KGB vampire, a CIA werewolf, and British witch. It had the potential to end in bloody, violent disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Field Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is a little different from the other stories I've written so please bear with me. This is probably the most canon-divergent, AU story I've written to date so if it's a little strange I apologize. There are elements of OT3 and polyamory in this story so if that isn't your thing please turn away now. Otherwise, please read and enjoy! :D
> 
> A/N: I own nothing

Napoleon wakes up naked in a field. It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to him but it's certainly not the best either. It takes several moments of blinking up at the star-scattered sky for him to remember how he got here and why he was currently without clothing. That time of the month again, apparently. Shit.

He frowns and lays still, staring up at the sky and giving his mind a second to clear. He remembers bits and pieces from the night before but it's always difficult to recall everything; it's not an uncommon occurrence for someone with his "unique" condition but it's still frustrating. Losing large chunks of time tends to be a bit disconcerting no matter how often it occurred.

Rather than focusing on what he can't remember, Napoleon instead tries to take stock of his surroundings. He's in a field, that much is obvious. With any luck it was a field far away from any nearby houses or roads, somewhere that no innocent bystanders would be at risk. He's also naked as the day he was born. Once again, not unexpected but still frustrating because it meant his clothing from the night before was more than likely in shreds somewhere in a ditch. He should really learn to stop wearing designer clothes when it was close to that time; it never ended well for them.

His hair is damp with dew or maybe sweat, he can't really be sure, and he can feel cold blades of grass brushing against his ears. The weird, biological clock inside tells him it's just before 5 am, still dark enough for the stars to be in full view but early enough for the moon to have set into the horizon. It's cold but not uncomfortable; then again, Napoleon's body temperature always runs higher than normal so it could have been close to freezing and he would have barely noticed.

He gives very brief thought to the idea of sitting up but dismisses it just as quickly. He still feels dizzy and heavy even though he's not moving, a bone-deep ache still pulsing through his body. The change always left him feeling tired and achy, like the flu on steroids. His skin feels irritated and raw, too sensitive and too exposed. He was never one for sunburns but he's pretty sure this is how they feel: tight, sore, fevered. It feels like every bone and joint has been broken, reset, and then broken again. His muscles can't decide if they want to ache from fatigue, exertion, or simply from being rearranged and then jammed back into their correct position. All together he feels like an exposed nerve, raw, inflamed, and excruciating.

His senses are still extraordinarily heightened but not nearly as much as they had been the night before; it feels like everything has been muted just slightly with the setting of the moon. He can hear crickets and a few chirping birds and the air is thick with the smell of pine and cedar. He's very close to a forest.

He lays there for a long time and doesn't move. He knows he'll have to make his way back to town eventually, there's still the issue of a mission to complete. For right now, though, he's content to simply lie in the damp grass and stare up at the sky.

There's suddenly a shoe next to his head and he'd flinch if he possessed the energy. It never ceases to amaze him that he never hears Illya coming. Stealthy bastard. "Top of the morning, Peril," he greets from his place on the ground, blinking up at the tall Russian above him. His voice is a little hoarse and rough from disuse.

The other agent offers the barest hint of a smirk before gracefully lowering himself to a crouch. "Stargazing, Cowboy?"

"Ah well, you know, had to get away from the city for a while," Napoleon retorts, rolling his shoulders just slightly against the cool grass beneath him. High body temperature or not, it was starting to get cold. "Speaking of, how did you find me? We're miles away from the safe house."

Illya shrugs like the question isn't even worth asking. "I put tracker on you," he says simply, still balancing on his haunches.

Napoleon offers a cheeky grin in response. "On me or in me?"

The Russian agent just rolls his eyes at the joke. "On you," he corrects easily. "I sewed it into your clothes. You did not lose them far from here; not difficult to track."

"So sneaky," Napoleon mutters, shifting a little more on the ground. He's not even surprised anymore; as much as it pained him in the beginning, he must admit that Illya is as good a spy as he is. Their unique quirks notwithstanding, they actually made for a relatively decent team.

"Help me up," he says, lifting one lead-heavy arm off the ground.

Illya frowns at him and hesitates. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Napoleon says with a small nod. Everything still hurts but he knows laying on cold dirt won't help matters at all. "Naked stargazing is starting to lose its appeal."

Illya glances at him then, appearing to just now notice that the other man is completely nude. It's not the first time they've seen each other naked, hell, that's been going on for over a year now, but Illya is nothing if not respectful and does his best to maintain a certain level of propriety at all times.

He averts his gaze just slightly and instead offers his hand to the other man on the ground. Napoleon takes it allows himself to be pulled up into a sitting position, the motion causing his head to spin. He frowns and sways slightly and Illya places a steadying hand between his shoulder blades.

"Easy," the Russian man soothes, keeping one hand on Napoleon's back while the other maintains its grip on his hand. He's experienced Napoleon's post-change woozieness firsthand and knows that sudden movements should be avoided for at least an hour after the change. In spite of his suave demeanor and how much he would love to deny it, Illya has been around Napoleon long enough to know that the change always leaves him disoriented and dizzy.

He waits until Napoleon no longer looks like he's about to be sick before removing his hand from the other man's back and shrugging out of his jacket. The other agent takes it gratefully and slips it on, deftly rolling up the sleeves as he slides his arms in. What Napoleon lacks in height, he makes up for in muscle so Illya's shirts are always too long in the arms and too tight across the chest and back. Oh well, beggars can't be choosers; especially since his clothes are shredded and useless somewhere nearby.

"Thanks, Peril," he says, accepting the other man's help as he slowly and stiffly pulls himself up off the ground. Everything hurts and his limbs feel heavy and wooden as he moves. It's a complete reversal from the freedom and exhilaration he experiences during the change, something that's not exactly pleasant but unavoidable all the same. It usually takes him about a day to get back to his normal self, the hours following a full moon leaving him tired, sore, and exhausted.

He takes a second to look around the field again now that he's upright. It's completely empty save for a white, cross-crossed fence a little over a quarter mile away. He frowns slightly and realizes that he has the very faint, coppery tang of blood in the back of his mouth. "Did I do something I'm going to regret?"

Illya shakes his head and absently adjusts the jacket collar at Napoleon's neck. "You killed some chickens. Not many, three at most."

"You saw that?"

The Russian just nods. "Like I said, not difficult to track."

Napoleon wants to be surprised that he was never aware of Illya's presence but to be honest, he's not. It wasn't like he could smell him (whether he was human or otherwise) and it had been established early on that Illya made about as much noise as a monk in a soundproof room. He could blend in and out of shadows like he was made of them and he could disappear just as quickly when it suited him.

It had taken a while for Napoleon to accept that his Russian partner was fundamentally different from anyone he'd ever worked with. Illya was impossibly strong, fast, and could clear large areas of space in the blink of an eye. He also did not cast a reflection or have a heartbeat and he could not go out into direct sunlight without suffering severe consequences. Everyone had their quirks.

Napoleon glances back at the fence and shrugs before buttoning the jacket halfway to provide some semblance of coverage. "Well, chickens are better than people I suppose," he mutters to himself more than Illya, rolling his shoulders a little to relieve some of the stiffness. It doesn't help that much. "Did you bring the car or should we try our hand at hitchhiking?"

Illya shakes his head and nods toward the treeline behind them. "The car is not far away. It will be faster than hitchhiking. Besides," he says, shrugging just slightly like the follow-up portion of his sentence had just occurred to him. "Gaby will start to worry."

Napoleon offers a knowing smirk and shakes his head. "Can't have that, can we?"

"No," the Russian agent replies with a shake of his head. "Not good for either of us if she gets upset."

Napoleon nods in agreement and motions toward the treeline. "Lead the way, my Russian friend."


	2. On Safehouses and the Sharing of Coats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you good to drive?" Napoleon asks, eyeing him carefully over the roof of the car. Illya's skin looks like porcelain in the early morning light, pale and flawless as always. It fascinates Napoleon to no end.
> 
> Illya just nods. "Dawn is still a ways off. I'll be fine."
> 
> Napoleon shrugs and drops down into the passenger seat. "Let me know if you need me to take over."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dears! You guys are amazing, thank you all so much for reading! I'm really happy you're enjoying it so far! :D Not a whole lot happening in this chapter but hopefully it's okay!

They find the car about a mile and half away, nearly hidden in a small thicket of trees and overgrowth that blankets the edges of the road. The sky is still a deep velvet purple, small spatterings of stars still speckling the early morning sky. Napoleon guesses they have about an hour before sunrise, enough time to get back to the safehouse before Illya faces the negative effects of daybreak. Hopefully.

To be perfectly honest, Napoleon isn't really sure where they are and they could just as easily be several miles away from the safehouse which would not be good for either of them. Napoleon because he's still a little disoriented from the night before and Illya because...well, Illya just did not do well in the sun. Napoleon hopes that isn't the case; he usually didn't stray too far outside of town during the change but he had been feeling particularly antsy in the days leading up to it so for all he knows he could have traipsed right into the next province in the middle of the night without ever realizing it.

As if sensing his thoughts (which Napoleon isn't entirely sure he can't do; Illya's abilities are as mysterious as they are frightening) Illya just offers a small smile and opens the driver's side door. "Don't worry, we're not that far outside of town. Only a few miles."

"Are you good to drive?" Napoleon asks, eyeing him carefully over the roof of the car. Illya's skin looks like porcelain in the early morning light, pale and flawless as always. It fascinates Napoleon to no end.

Illya just nods. "Dawn is still a ways off. I'll be fine."

Napoleon shrugs and drops down into the passenger seat. "Let me know if you need me to take over."

The Russian agent nods again and slides soundlessly into the driver's seat behind the wheel. He cranks the engine and the car hums to life, headlights flickering on and illuminating the darkened road around them. Granted, neither of them needed the lights to be able to see in the dark clearly but they had to keep up appearances.

Illya turns the car around at the end of the lane and navigates down the narrow road back toward town. They drive in relative silence for the majority of the trip, comfortable to sit quietly in each other's company. Napoleon is still drained from the night before and Illya is content enough with his own thoughts; conversation isn't necessary at all times. Napoleon does make it a point to reach out and brush his fingers across the back of Illya's hand, his fingertips tracing over the pale blue veins that snake beneath his cool skin.

It's a small gesture but it's gentle and intimate and it means more than words could ever express. Illya casts a glance at his partner from the corner of his eye but Napoleon isn't looking at him, he's gazing out the window and watching the sky fade from crushed velvet plum to a warm blue with tinges of rose. His fingers continue to trace small, languid patterns across the back of Illya's hand though, outlining thin bones, rough callouses, and long fingers.

The country road gives way to clumps of houses that turn into small neighborhoods, neighborhoods that turn into suburbs, and suburbs that turn into the city. Early morning traffic is just beginning to fill the streets, a few people wandering and meandering along the darkened streets slowly. The streetlights lining the sidewalks are beginning to shut off here and there, the pre-dawn light taking the place of fluorescent bulbs.

Napoleon watches Illya carefully as they pull onto their designated street. The sun isn't completely up yet but the tightness in the Russian agent's jaws is noticeable. His hands are clenched a little more tightly on the steering wheel, those same pale veins appearing darker with the lightening sky outside.

Napoleon shrugs out of Illya's jacket (modesty be damned) and passes it back to him as they pull into the makeshift garage outside the safehouse. The first rays of sunlight are beginning to peek over the edges of the buildings and they're out of time. Luckily the garage is covered and sits on the opposite side of the house so it buys them a few more minutes to slip out of the car and make their way up the steps to the front door. Illya takes the jacket back from his partner and slips it on to cover as much skin as he can. Napoleon, on the other hand, is baring absolutely everything and doesn't look at all bothered as he strolls into the house behind Illya, closing the door behind them and drawing the shades down low.

Gaby is sitting in the living room, a heavy, leather-bound book in her lap and a teacup on the table beside her. A spoon is stirring the tea on its own languidly, following the same motion as Gaby's finger as she traces slow, lazy circles in the air. She looks up when they walk in and her finger stops moving, the spoon simultaneously sliding to a stop as well and then toppling out of the cup onto the table.

"Cutting it a bit close today, boys," she says, sliding off the couch and walking into the kitchen to draw the curtains over the windows above the sink and in the dining room.

"We had time," Illya assures her easily, shrugging out of the jacket once more and passing it back to Napoleon. The other agent is still naked as all hell but he's positioned himself behind one of the chairs near the dining room table for Gaby's sake. Not that she cares; hell, she's seen just as much of Napoleon as Illya has and neither of them care but still, Napoleon feels like he should still show some respect and try to cover himself up.

"You forget the sun comes up earlier this time of year," Gaby chides lightly, slipping into the kitchen and running her hand across the small of Illya's back. She pops up on her tiptoes and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Some of the tension in Illya's shoulders loosens and he shrugs in agreement. "Maybe it was a bit close..."

"That was my fault," Napoleon relents, raising one hand to take responsibility. He takes the jacket back from Illya and slips it on again, buttoning it defty. "I went out too far last night."

Gaby just shakes her head and walks over to the other agent, reaching out to straighten the lapels of the jacket before resting her palms against his chest. "Not your fault," she tells him, rising up on her toes again to peck him on the lips as well. "Not the wolf's fault either. You know he needs room to run." She smooths the jacket absently, picking off a wayward piece of fuzz clinging to the shoulder. "I'm just glad you're both okay."

"You're too good for us, Ms. Teller," Napoleon laments dramatically, wrapping her in his arms and resting his chin on top of her head.

Gaby responds by slipping her arms into the opening of the jacket and pressing her cold hands into the flat expanse of Napoleon's back.

The American agent jumps and flinches away. "Okay, I take it back. You're just as terrible as we are."

Gaby just laughs and pulls away, walking back over to where Illya is standing and leaning up against him like a pillar. "All a matter of opinion and circumstance."

"And on that morally ambiguous note," Napoleon says with a smirk. "I'll excuse myself to find some clothing that provides a bit more coverage."

He steps out and disappears down the hallway toward the bedroom, leaving Gaby and Illya alone in the kitchen. Illya will probably only be conscious for another half hour at most so she wants to spend some time with him before he checks out for the day. Napoleon can't blame her; he got Illya to himself for about an hour that morning so it's only fair that Gaby gets him for a while now. He leaves them to their own devices and goes in search of something resembling a pair of pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading guys! :D


	3. Changes and Transformations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon doesn't remember much of the attack itself, just that it happened and he was the only member of his company to survive.
> 
> One minute they were walking quietly through the trees and then the silence was filled with the sounds of screams, gunshots, and ripping flesh. It came from behind them, whatever it was, and it tore through the back of their company like the men were little more than cardboard cutouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dears! I'm so happy you're all enjoying my story! You guys are the best! Okay, so this chapter has a few graphic descriptions so if you get queasy easily please proceed with caution! Otherwise, please enjoy! :D

The bedroom is clean but obviously looks lived in. There are a few suitcases shoved up against the far wall and the dressers and closet are filled with their clothes. There's only one bed, a large, sprawling king size that takes up most of the room. The single bed is not a problem; they prefer it that way actually. It was easier and more secure for them to hole up in a house that had one bedroom as opposed to several and they all end up sleeping in the same bed anyway so it doesn't matter.

Napoleon rummages through the closet for a moment or two before settling on a loose sweater and a pair of dark slacks. They weren't scheduled to go anywhere until much later that night so he opts for comfort over formality for the time being. He strips off Illya's jacket and arranges it on a hanger before sliding it back into the closet.

He slips the pants on, wincing just a bit at the lingering stiffness in his joints. It should be gone within the next few hours but it's still uncomfortably noticeable right now. He pulls the sweater over his head, catching sight of his reflection just briefly in the mirror across the room. As always, his eyes are drawn to the the thick, jagged scars that streak across his ribs on the left side of his body. The scar tissue is dark and ropey, a physical reminder of a deep and devastating injury. There are four scars all together, the longest one curling around to his back just beneath his shoulder blade. They stretch over almost the entire expanse of his ribs, shifting and rippling as he moves. If someone didn't know any better, they might mistake them for claw marks.

Napoleon doesn't remember much of the attack itself, just that it happened and he was the only member of his company to survive. It had happened early in his deployment, probably only a few months after he landed in Europe. It had been a routine patrol, a simple scouting mission that should have played out exactly like the hundreds of others they had done before. It was close to midnight when it happened, the moon so full and bright that it almost looked like the forest was being lit from above by a giant spotlight. In spite of that, they never saw it coming.

One minute they were walking quietly through the trees and then the silence was filled with the sounds of screams, gunshots, and ripping flesh. It came from behind them, whatever it was, and it tore through the back of their company like the men were little more than cardboard cutouts. Someone screamed Nazis while someone else screamed monster; there was really no way to tell. It all happened within a matter of seconds, a few terrifying, blood-soaked seconds.

Napoleon had been toward the front of the group when it happened and by the time he turned around and leveled his gun, the thing was on him. It slammed him into a tree, the impact hard enough to splinter wood, and then long, sharp claws were slicing through fabric and flesh alike.

The pain was enough to take his breath away and he knew with absolute certainty that he was going to die. But then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. For whatever reason, the beast dropped him and disappeared back into the darkness, leaving Napoleon critically wounded and bleeding out on the frozen forest floor.

His next memory was waking up in a medical tent with an IV hooked into his arm and couple hundred stitches patching his body back together. His ribs were shattered on that side, his left lung had collapsed, and the attack was severe enough that it caused extensive internal bleeding; to be honest the medics didn't think he would survive the night. At least that's what they told him.

Much to everyone's surprise, his ribs healed within the next twenty-four hours and whatever internal damage had been done apparently healed along with them. Napoleon went from being on death's door to up and walking after only two days in the clinic. The medics said it was a miracle and Napoleon didn't have any other explanation for it so he agreed with them. The scars on his ribs remained though, the wounds healing beneath the sutures into thick cords of scar tissue.

His commanding officers asked if he remembered anything from the attack but he honestly couldn't provide that much information. It was dark, it was late, he wasn't sure what he saw. His commander chalked the incident up to a very unfortunate wild animal attack and told the rest of his battalion to be on the lookout for dangerous animals in the days and weeks to come.

Napoleon tried to continue on as he had before but something was different now. Survivor's guilt and near death experience aside, something in him had changed that night in the forest. His reflexes were faster, his senses heightened, and he felt stronger than he ever had before. As much as he wanted to blame the change on his "miraculous recovery" he knew there was more to it than that. He just wasn't sure what. That is until about a month later when the moon was full.

He'd been on edge for three full days leading up to it, antsy and tense like he was waiting for a surprise attack. His clothes felt too tight, his skin too hot, he felt like he was coming apart at the seams. He wasn't sure what was happening but it left him feeling irritable and snappy all afternoon.

The fever hit around 8:30, hot and searing and burning through his skin like a living flame. He was dizzy and shaky and all he wanted to do was lay down and wait for it all to stop. His memories got a little fuzzy then because the next thing he knew he was in the forest, still burning alive from the inside and stumbling over clods of dirt and tree roots. He wasn't sure where he was, when he left, how long he'd been out there. All he knew was that the moon was so full it was blinding.

A pain like nothing he'd ever felt before struck him hard and deep to his core, tearing and pulling like it was determined to rip his body apart from the inside out. He fell to his knees, breathing hard and gasping, his fingers digging deep into the dirt. He was trembling all over, sweating and shaking and retching bile onto the ground. There was an odd sound, somewhere between a crack and a crunch, and he felt his spine snap in half. The joints in his elbows and knees followed soon after, breaking and twisting and rearranging themselves into impossible angles.

Both jaws broke with a resounding crunch and his teeth sharpened and elongated to something that bore a striking resemblance to fangs. He thinks he cried out in pain but the noise that came out of him was not human. It sounded like a roar, guttural and deep like an enraged animal. He was just coherent enough to realize that he had changed into something else entirely before his consciousness checked out and the world went dark.

He woke up the next morning sore, naked, and sprawled over the carcass of a dead deer. He could taste blood in his mouth and there were bits of meat stuck between his teeth; it made him sick to his stomach. He spent the next twenty minutes vomiting partially digested deer meat into a thick, viscous puddle behind a tree.

When he straightened again, he realized he had no idea where he was or what had happened; all he knew was that his clothes were gone and it was just before dawn. He stumbled around for about a mile before he found a small farmhouse with a clothesline outside. Vowing to return the clothes as soon as he could, he stole a shirt and an ill-fitting pair of pants and staggered his way another mile back to base. He wasn't sure how he knew he was going the right way but he had some deep, almost inhuman sense of direction that pushed him the right way.

He was severely reprimanded for his disappearance by his commanding officer but when one of the medics suggested it might have been a stress-induced response by what had happened the previous month, the punishment was reduced a bit.

Napoleon never told anyone what happened that night; partially because he didn't have a rational explanation and also because he doubted anyone would ever believe him. Any hopes he might have had about the change being a one-time thing were quickly destroyed when it happened again the next month. And again the month after that.

He tried finding a cure or a treatment or anything that could fix...whatever this was. All leads led to nothing but dead ends and frustration. Once he came to the conclusion that he was stuck with this (at least for the time being), he simply learned to adapt. It got easier after a while; granted it still hurt like a bitch everytime he changed but he got better at hiding it and discreetly slipping away the day of the full moon so he wasn't as likely to accidentally snap at someone.

His introduction to Illya a few years later had come as something of a shock. Not because Illya was KGB and Napoleon was CIA (although that did add a bit of tension to their initial partnership) but because Illya was like him. Well, not like him exactly but removed enough from humanity to be not quite classified as such. Neither of them were human, not completely, and honestly that was a relief. For a long time Napoleon thought he was alone in all of this; other than the thing that attacked him he didn't know of any other supernatural creatures wandering around out in the open.

They worked together for close to year before their relationship transformed into anything more than strictly professional. In that time Illya had witnessed Napoleon transform at least half a dozen times and Napoleon had become more than enough aware of Illya's unusual eating habits. Illya stuck to a liquid diet in the most literal sense and saved his fangs only for those who preyed on the innocent. It worked out in his favor because most of the people they dealt with in their line of work fell into that category.

Napoleon didn't know much about Illya's change; it was a painfully private matter that Illya hardly ever brought up. The lack of knowledge was not for lack of trying, either; Napoleon worked diligently for weeks digging into every scrap of information he could get his hands on through CIA connections to find even the slightest hint of what had happened to him. No such luck; aside from his KGB file and what little information he collected from the CIA archives, Illya Kuryakin remained one giant Russian mystery.

Illya eventually took pity on him and dropped a few very small hints about his change. The story was rife with holes and gaps, cryptic and vague much like Illya himself, but Napoleon took what he could get.

It had happened about three years earlier just outside of Moscow. Illya didn't go too far into detail (KGB secrets and all) but he told him there had been some kind of altercation between himself and a group of men outside of a warehouse. It had been a violent and brutal fight and somewhere in the middle one of the men went for his throat.

Unlike the thick scars that rip across Napoleon's side, Illya's are small and almost completely unnoticeable unless he points them out. There are two very tiny puncture wounds at the base of Illya's throat, tucked just between his collarbone and the corded column of his neck. They're leveled just over the artery and the depth and angle makes it clear that it had been pierced by something sharp.

Illya told him that the man who attacked him latched onto his throat and clamped down like a vice. There was an odd sensation that followed, cold and rapid and leaving him weak and limp. The teeth in his throat were nothing compared to the feeling of the blood being rapidly siphoned out of his body. His heart pounded in pain and fear before slowing to a crawl and finally stopping altogether. Unlike Napoleon, Illya remembered the exact moment he died and the exact moment he became something else.

He woke up the next morning in an alley covered in trash. The men had tried to hide his body and they had pretty much succeeded; they just didn't think about the fact that said body would come back to life and stumble out into the street. Illya found out rather quickly the kinds of negative effects the sun now had on his body. Third degree burns, bleeding blisters, sloughing skin; the list went on for days and none of the side effects were pleasant.

He also found that he had lost his taste for normal food and craved something a bit more iron-rich instead. Real food now tasted like ashes and caused him to vomit almost immediately after consumption. Blood, as disgusting as it was in the beginning, was the only thing he could keep down and the only thing that quenched the undeniable thirst that plagued him ever since the night he turned.

He made a vow to only take from the takers, those who preyed on the innocent and vulnerable. Muggers, rapists, abusers; he had no qualms about taking them down. He kept a secure contact with someone who worked at the local hospitals and blood banks in case of emergencies but typically it didn't come to that.

Napoleon never had to worry about Illya's hunger getting the better of him while they were working together, either. Aside from the occasional love bite, Illya made it very clear that he would never drink from Napoleon. Most of this was out of respect and affection but some of it was also because of Napoleon's blood.

Illya tried to tell him, as politely as he could manage, that Napoleon's blood tasted like wet dog. Napoleon wasn't exactly sure how to feel about that but he appreciated the restraint.

It had been a gamble from the very beginning, throwing together a KGB vampire with a CIA werewolf. It had the potential to end in bloody, violent disaster. They worked well together, though. Not that they didn't get on each other's nerves every once in awhile but hey, who didn't?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get some info on Gaby's story in the next chapter!
> 
> Thanks for reading guys! :D


	4. Witchy Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby was a witch in the most literal sense imaginable. She radiated magic and energy and was powerful enough to make Merlin look like a street magician by comparison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the long gap between updates! Hope you all enjoy it! :D

Napoleon steps out of the bedroom and makes his way back to the front of the house. He finds Illya and Gaby in the kitchen, Gaby's small frame pressed up against Illya's much larger one. Her head is tilted up and he has his arms looped around her, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. It's a sweet moment, quiet and gentle, and Napoleon lets them have it. He settles on the couch Gaby had been sitting on when they walked in and stretches out across the cushions.

The sun is starting to get a bit higher and even with all the shades in the house drawn, Illya is still beginning to feel the effects. He yawns widely, the very tips of his fangs visible with the motion.

Gaby smiles and pats her hand against his chest lightly. "Time for bed," she tells him, pressing another kiss to his lips, completely unperturbed by the appearance of his fangs. Just like Napoleon, Gaby never had to worry about Illya going for her jugular. He loved both of them too much for that and would rather die a very slow, agonizing death than put either of them in danger.

Illya nods and gives her another kiss before stepping out of the kitchen and making his way down the hall. He pauses by the couch, reaching out and passing his fingers through Napoleon's hair as he walks by. The American agent reaches up and catches his wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze as he passes.

Good nights (good mornings?) made, he opens the door in the middle of the hallway and steps down into the darkness. One concession for every safe house they stayed in was that there had to be either a basement or some kind of cellar. Even though he quite literally turned into a corpse during the day, Illya didn't sleep in a coffin (a single bed worked just fine, thank you). He did require complete darkness though and basements and cellars were usually the best way to go.

One of the first things they did when they moved into this house was set up the basement as a makeshift cave for Illya. As he would be spending half the day down there, they at least wanted to make sure it was comfortable. Napoleon dragged down a bed while Gaby scoured every wall to make sure they were intact and no wayward sunbeams could seep through the cracks. Satisfied that Illya wouldn't burn to death in the middle of the day, they set up the bed and made the basement feel as cozy as possible (a difficult task considering it stayed either completely dark or dimly lit at all times).

Illya tosses one last tired wave over his shoulder before the door closes behind him and he disappears into the basement. Napoleon knew they wouldn't see him for at least another ten hours so he settles a bit more on the couch and makes himself comfortable. Occasionally he and Gaby would go out and run errands or conduct recon while Illya was asleep. There was nothing for them to do today though; they wouldn't be going anywhere until much later that night so for now it looked like they were homebound.

Not that Napoleon minds all that much; he's still exhausted and sore from the night before and staying home actually sounds like a great idea right now. He can hear Gaby moving around in the kitchen quietly, the soft clink and jangle of glass bottles and ceramic jars. He guesses he falls asleep for a minute or two because the next time he opens his eyes Gaby is on the couch with him, sitting on the other end with her bare feet tucked up under his legs. He never heard her come back into the room or felt her get on the couch with him (which is a little disconcerting) but Gaby is a lot like Illya in that she can move completely silently when she wants to.

The book is balanced on her knees and she's making very small circles with her finger again, the spoon in the teacup twirling lazily in time with the motions. She looks up at him and offers a warm smile, nudging the back of his leg with her toes. "Tea is on the stove if you want some."

Napoleon pulls himself into a sitting position, wincing just slightly, and catches her hand. He presses a light kiss to her palm and squeezes her hand gently. "You're the best," he tells her, sliding off the couch and walking into the kitchen.

"I know," Gaby sing-songs back with a smile, going back to her book.

There are two pots on the stove, both filled with an odd assortment of leaves and herbs and simmering slightly. One is filled with a liquid the color of black coffee with a small cloth satchel floating around the edges of the pot. The other is lighter, more of a dark amber, and there's something that looks suspiciously like a twig sitting in the middle of it.

Napoleon eyes both carefully, trying to determine which is which. It was dangerous when Gaby started making potions in the kitchen and one wrong move could leave him either dead or completely debilitated for the entire day. He knew better than to underestimate Gaby's experiments; the last time he slipped up he was left in a coma for eighteen hours.

He makes a decision and reaches for one of the pots but Gaby's voice cuts in from the other room. "Not that one," she says, not looking up from her book.

Napoleon nods in acknowledgement and takes the other pot off the stove. It's the darker of the two (not the one he picked originally) and the liquid inside the pot swishes and swirls like ink as he carries it over to the sink. He fishes the cloth satchel out of the pot and sets it to the side, pouring a liberal amount of the tea into a mug on the countertop next to the sink. He drops the satchel back into the pot and carries everything back to its original place on the stove.

Tea in hand, he walks back into the living room and drops down on the couch with Gaby. Once he's seated again, she tucks her feet back under his legs and goes back to reading. The book in her lap had been nearly ever-present since she joined them, always somewhere in the room or close by. It was filled with spells and potions and charms and she poured over for a couple hours every day.

Gaby had been a new and exciting breath of fresh air in their unlikely partnership. They had been assigned to protect her from a shadowy organization who wanted to use her as bait to get to her father. Babysitting assignments typically didn't go over well, especially once the client figured out about Napoleon and Illya's rather unique traits. Not only was Gaby completely unfazed by the realization, she called it within five minutes of meeting them. She was far more perceptive than they initially gave her credit for and it was surprising to say the least. What was more surprising, however, was that Gaby had a few secrets of her own.

Gaby was a witch in the most literal sense imaginable. She radiated magic and energy and was powerful enough to make Merlin look like a street magician by comparison. Her small, slight frame hid a very strong, dangerous sorceress just beneath the surface and it became obvious very quickly that Gaby didn't need them to protect her, she was more than capable of that all on her own.

Unlike Illya and Napoleon, Gaby's abilities began manifesting when she was a little girl. It was weak at first, a few power surges here, some floating plates there, but nothing that couldn't be explained away with faulty wiring or a trick of the eyes. They had gotten stronger over the years but Gaby's powers didn't reach full maturity until her 21st birthday.

That morning, a leather-bound book appeared on her doorstep written in a language she couldn't read. It was odd, yes, but not alarming. She chalked it up to a friend playing a prank and simply dropped the book onto the kitchen table and left it that. Later that night, while getting dressed to meet up with some friends for dinner, an old woman suddenly appeared in her kitchen. She never said a word, she just reached out, grabbed Gaby by the wrist, picked up the book, and then both of them disappeared.

Gaby was missing for seven months before finally reappearing along the side of a road in Belarus. She didn't have a purse or wallet or any kind of identification; all she had with her was a leather-bound book she kept clutched to her chest like a shield. She was lost, barefoot, and disoriented and couldn't explain her whereabouts for the past seven months to the police officer who picked her up. She thought she had only been gone for a few days and had no idea how she ended up wandering along the side of the road 700 miles away from her home.

She spent three days in a local hospital while doctors and physicians ran every kind of test imaginable trying to understand the reason behind her disappearance. After an exhaustive battery of tests, they determined that other than being slightly dehydrated Gaby Teller was healthy as she could be. Gaby assured them that even though she couldn't remember where exactly she was for the past seven months that she had been completely fine; she told them she was visiting her maternal grandmother and had been safe the entire time.

This explanation led to more questions than answers as Gaby's grandmother had been dead since she was six. Further investigation into Gaby's background revealed that every female member of her family on her mother's side going back until at least the 1840s had experienced a similar disappearance on her 21st birthday. The disappearances would usually only last a few days and then the women would reappear just as Gaby had done, confused and disoriented and claiming to have spent time with a long-dead grandmother or aunt.

Gaby's experience had been different in both length and reappearance. Most of the women were only missing for a few days, a week at most, and they would reappear within a few miles of their home. Gaby was gone for seven months and reappeared in another country. She didn't have an explanation but neither did anyone else. With nothing to hold her in the hospital, the doctors released her into the care of a family member who took her back home.

It quickly became apparent that Gaby was different from the other female members of her family, however. For one thing, her abilities began manifesting at a very early age; most of the women in her family didn't experience their first power surge until they were nearly twenty, Gaby experienced hers when she was four. Gaby was also the last surviving woman on her mother's side which meant all the power that had been equally doled out among sisters, aunts, and cousins in previous generations now settled on one single recipient. Gaby was powerful in ways no one else in her family ever had been.

Her seven month hiatus had been a literal blitzkrieg of learning about her new powers and learning to control them. The leather-bound book had become her bible, her gospel, her scripture. It contained every spell, secret, and incantation her ancestors had painstakingly collected and passed down through the generations and now it belonged to Gaby. Destiny and fate willing, the book might eventually be passed down to her daughter but for now Gaby was the most powerful witch in eastern Europe.

She controlled it well, though. For all her power and knowledge, Gaby was very careful and practical in her use of magic. Her ego remained in check and she never crossed the line of megalomania which was a feat in and of itself because not all the women in her family had been so lucky. The level of power she possessed had broken even the strongest of them with the sweet temptation of corruption and it would have been all too easy for Gaby to succumb to it as well. Not that she hadn't thought about it; to be honest it had crossed her mind once or twice. But because she was so powerful, her self-control and willpower seemed to increase in response. Gaby refused to be corrupted through sheer force of will and it worked amazingly well for her.

Napoleon and Illya helped in that regard as well. Until she met them, Gaby often felt like she was adrift in an ocean of solitude and secrecy. She couldn't talk to anyone about her powers and she doubts anyone would believe her if she did so she was left carrying the burden of her secret lifestyle all on her own. The best thing that ever happened to her was becoming the target of the organization that was trying to get to her father.

It wasn't because she was in the crosshairs but because MI6 saw it necessary to send in both the CIA and KGB's best to protect her. Not that she needed it (she could turn a man inside out without ever looking at him if she wanted to) but she found a sense of balance with Napoleon and Illya. She found people with secrets and abilities like her and it made her feel more grounded than she'd felt in years since discovering her powers. She found her people and she stayed with them.

She fit in with them like she had been there from the beginning, slipping into their lives quietly and seamlessly. Napoleon was taken with her instantly and Illya warmed to her almost as quickly once he realized she wasn't just a damsel in distress in need of constant saving and protection. Gaby was beautiful, smart, strong, and could flatten a man with little more than a flick of her wrist. She fit both of their types to a T. The fact that their twosome became a threesome was not so much a matter of if but when.

They had all been living, working, and sleeping with each other for a little over four months now and it worked out better than any of them could have anticipated. They all added something to the partnership and they all stood on equal footing with each other. In its own, odd little way it was completely perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys! More to come soon! :D

**Author's Note:**

> More to come soon, guys! Thanks for reading! :D


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